UNDER 
WESTERN 
SKIES 
POEMS 



PS 3539 
.E16 U5 
1899 
Copy 1 



ERANK aPLETON TCCK 



UNDER WESTERN SKIES 



UNDER WESTERN SKIES 
POEMS 



BY V 

FRANK CARLETON TECK 



NEW WHATCOM, WASHINGTON 

BLADE PUBLISHING CO. 

1S99 



Copyright, 1899, 
By Frank C. Teck. 



T.V/0 COPIES RECEIVED, 

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SECOND COPY, 



^pv B_ f\ f^^ Cy\ Ok FVe55 of Cald'well and Calveri 



MOONLIGHT 

Like a great gull with silver wings 
Stretched, quivering, o'er the sea, 

The moon her glistening plumage brings. 
And hovers silently. 



DAY 

The silver spears of Morning, pointing high 

Up from the East, deploy against the Night, 
And as we look, aflame with pearly light, 

The snowclad sentinels of ages vie 

With the effulgent glories of the sky 

In shifting splendors — then the ravished sight 
Beholds \he God of Day in mystic might 

Rise regally above the mists — a sigh 

Of fog-veils lifting — then the thrilling sweep 
Of gladsome voices freights the bracing air 

With Joy, — till Sunset, when with reddened spear 

The weary Chieftain o'er the Western deep, 
In livid rage, retreats, the while a flare 

Of scarlet volleys taunts the hosts a-rear! 



NIGHT 

Now on the field the starry hordes appear 

And sow the glooming vault with crystal sprays, 
Far diamond treasures hung belike in praise 

Of some fair astral goddess drawing near. 

High in the opal north, as if in fear. 

The polar sentinel's pale face displays 
The signal of the night, and all ablaze 

With brilliant dyes the Evening Star stands clear. 

And now a beryl blush o'erspreads the East, 

A cheering glow adorns the twinkling crowds, 
The myriad eyes seem symbols of Delight — 

Like some fair queen parading to the feast, 

Slow gliding up among the jeweled clouds. 

Triumphant rides the Mistress of the Night! 



A CATHEDRAL OF THE AGES 

My skiflf is pillowed on a sunless sea 

In a lone hollow of the emerald shore, 

Far from the town, far from the ceasless roar 

And fevered hum of trade and industrj". 

The wild, majestic Ba}' of Myster}-, 

Rock-walled, fir-pillared shrine of eerie lore, 
Mute witness of the ages evermore — 

Sublime reminder of what used to be ! 

I feel my view of Time grow wondrous wide: 
I see the world of old, and, overawed, 
note the magic of the swelling tide. 

Instinct with pow'r transcending human laud — 

All while wind-heralds through the forests ride 
And fill the solitudes with songs of God ! 



CHARITY 

I dreamt I died last night and that no rest 

Came to my soul : The angel Memory laid 
His burning palm upon my brow ; a shade 

Upset Temptation's vitriol on my breast — 

Whereat Mephisto grinned and called me blest \ 
A god of Gossip told how I had strayed 
From lovely lawns where Virtue's children played, 

And notes of jeer and scorn rang East and West. 

My tortured soul grew sick with anguish — then, 
As if some heavenly host had cleared the sky, 
An angel chorus made the Impians cease, 

And all the shades, save Memory, vanished when 
God's Charity sang a tender lullaby 

And bade my weary spirit rest in peace. 



THE BLUEJAY 

Deep iu the roomy wild of noble trees 

And waxdng dogwood and syringa blooms, 
There is a nook walled in by dreamy glooms 

And regal fern, and hung with luxuries 

Of honeysuckle, fondled by the breeze 

That robs the tall, sweet-breath spiraea plumes 
Upon its murmuring voyage from the tombs — 

The cooling bosom of the tragic seas. 

Ivist ! Hear that weird voice strike the solemn hill 

And pierce the sullen forest with its shrill, 
Exultant melody ! — the cedar stirs ! — 
A bold bird, mockish, through the stillness whirrs, 

And poised on limb above a babbling rill. 

Laughs loud — the impish soldier of the firs ! 



EVENING 

Long, lurid lines of crimson trace the sky 

And brighten tow'rd the glor5'-visaged West ; 
The waning of the glow upon the crest 
Of yonder hill entreats the weary sigh: 
"Another day is going — Night is nigh." 

The sun dips in the Ocean's shimmering breast 
And smiles a warm farewell as if he guessed, 
Alas! it were for us fore'er "Goodbye !" — 
Light falls the dew; the fog of fleecy gold 

Droops, gracefully, to kiss the languid bay, — 
Then swells and weaves its eerie fingers o'er 
The trees, the flowers — all it may enfold ; 

The air breathes echoes of the dying day. 

And Evening trills the siren songs of yore. 



THE WATCHERS SLEPT 

The guardsmen slumbered while the fight was on — 
Their thousands five and thirty reckoned not 
Their idle pow'r, nor how their comrades fought, 

Outnumbered, till the sorry day was done, 

And all surrendered with the setting sun. 

They slept! — as if the trumpet tones had brought 
No ringing call to arms — as if they sought 

Defense no more but feared the awful gun ! 

How the trained legions of the foemen swept 
Like tidal waves along the listless shore. 
Scaled the high wall and, ere the day was o'er, 

Full-plumed to glory and the ramparts leapt ! — 
And — oh ! the sting of shame forevermore ! — 

'T were never done but that our soldiers slept ! 



WHEN APRIL COMES 

When April comes, the hollow sky 
Grows wide, and radiant, and high. 

As if the theater of man 

Were set to show some nobler plan 
Of Nature's variant mystery ; — 

As if the audience, bye-and-bye, 
Should hear some holier minstrelsy — 
Some higher art of God should scan- 
When April comes. 

The snow-mist's dream-inspiring sigh 
Seems like some far-off prophet-cry 
Above the siren pipes of Pan — 
A ghost of Winter's broken ban, 
Upon the ambient air to die — 
When April comes. 



QUO VADIS 

As one begloonied and lost far out a-sea, 

O life, I grope in thine old mystery ! 

As some poor star, foredoomed, falls endlessly, 

O death, must I too lose myself in thee? 



MY VALENTINE 

My Valentine is sweet and fair, 

As merry as the wimpling air, 

And long I 've loved and longed to see 
Again her wonted smile for me 

Beneath her brown, wild wavy hair. 

She'd toss a kiss from Cupid's lair, 
And if to pay the debt I 'd dare, 

She 'd coyly cry, "You cannot be 
My Valentine!" 

Ah, may she never know a care. 

But joyous music be her share, 

Ungloomed with dirge or threnody — 
A girl so gentle, blithe and free, 

To know her is a privilege rare — 
My Valentine ! 



THE RIVER 

The clouds lay low in the heavens 

And the dim, weird night came on, 
And the cold, pulsive river was sullen 

With a ghost of the light long gone. 
And the trees sighed gruesome dirges, 

And the waves bore grimy foam, — 
But the star-eyes mellowed the river, 

The turbulent river at home. 

The bats flapped drowsily o'er me 

In the air that was thick and chill, 
And the owls made dulcet music. 

And all save these were still. 
And, though in these shadows of Nature 

No song birds sought to roam. 
The stars shone bright in the river. 

The ruminant river at home. 

And so in the dismal darkness 
The rivers of hearts e'er flow : 



THE RIVER 

Some foaming with worldly poison, 

The lowliest of the low ; 
Some deep in crime's dark whirlpool. 

Or rude as the current's wrath ; 
Some gliding o'er new-found courses, 

Some holding the sure old path ; 

And, though the grim trees murmur 

The ruinous, rumored tale, 
And the wise owl seem to jeer him 

And the bat the searcher rail, — 
When the passion-clouds have scurried 

Away from the mystic Whole 
The stars illumine the river 

That pictures the human soul. 



THE AFTERMATH 

*'Ha ha !— what fools !" the raven said, 

Tilting his glossy, sheeny head, 

Rolling his roguish, roving eye 
Over the field from sky to sky 

Strewn with the carnage drear and dread ; 

Laughed at the wounded, stained so red. 

Laughed as he flapped from dead to dead— 
"Men are such gifted fools, say I ! — 
Ha ha !— what fools ! 

"Passion unchained and blood is shed : 
Desire unhaltered maketh its bed 

Out where the night-winds sob and sigh. 
Out where the warriors useless die — 
And I flap on from dead to dead — 
Ha ha !— what fools 



I >) 



QUIIvSHANE 

(Name of an Indian chief; Indian name of Mount Baker.) 

Far in the dim days of the past, 

Beside the fir-fringed sunset seas, 
There dwelt a storied tribal host 

Of brown-browed aborigines. 
Close by the yielding, shell-strewn shore 

Their barken habitations stood, 
And in the forest waste around 

Reposed a noble solitude. 
They knew no world beyond the hem 

That girt the shore — the fronded trees 
That sentineled and sheltered graves 

Of ancient aborigines. 
Their bread the pregnant ocean brought, 

Their feast grew in the tide-lapped sands ; 
The treasure-laden, wooded shore 

Supplied their simple arts' demands. 



QUILSHANE 

Full-charged with soothing kisses came 

The soft winds of the Japanese, 
And warmed this garden of the gods 

For sunset aborigines, — 
For seldom in this laughing clime 

The rime of winter's wrath appeared, 
And strangely on the vision gleamed 

The white crowns of the mountains weird. 
Their chief, a brown god of the braves, 

Was loved and feared — the mystic seas 
Were deemed the children of his whims 

By lowlier aborigines — 
And so, upon the wave of Fame, 

The name of Quilshane, the tyee 
Lay pillowed, like a child of Fate, 

A shibboleth of Destiny. 
Lo ! on the snow wall of the East 

The lights of stranger camps appear ! 
And rings above the sob of tides 

The voice of the bold pioneer. 
Anon the holy men of God 

The white hearts of the red men won, 
And tought the brotherhood of man, 

And smoothed the white tide coming on. 



QUILSHANE 

The silent moiiarchs of the wood 

Bowed to the arms of other lands ; 
The mirror-sea in reflex told 

How revolutionary hands 
Smoothed the rough brow of savagery, 

Like magic made the rude sublime 
And waked the fairest flower of all 

That cheer the corridors of Time. 
O'er Tyee Quilshane's favored shore 

The voice of young Ambition rang, 
And from the ashes of the wild 

Strange miracles of man upsprang. 
Like giants of some spirit realm 

The engines of the white man sped 
Within the royal parks of him 

Whose name marks eras dim and dead. 

So, in this brimming dip of Time, 

Beside the opal Puget Sea, 
Fair cities stud the noble realm 

Where reigned the aborigine ; 
Up from the new scene, as of old. 

The sky-kissed, jeweled mountains rear. 
And tireless, restless, on and on, 

Push Progress and the Pioneer. 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF SOLITUDE 

THE FOREST 

I dreamed beneath a canopy of fir, 

Beneath a godly bower — a mesh of green, 
Whose mystic murmuring and mellow sheen 

Engulfed the trilling of the birds. The whir 

Of feathery forms upon the hazy blur 
Of dreamy quiet spirited the mein 
Of Fancy's airy blendings in the scene — 

The dear, remembered child-ideals that were ! 

A breeze sighed solace to my troubled soul 

And whispered through the wilderness of wood. 

Alone ! away from fellows of the whole 

Grief-laden, striving world, the drunken mood, 

Untrammeled, gained the self-consuming goal. 
And knew the luxury of Solitude. 



THE PRAIRIE 

I stood amid an endless wold of grass, 
Amid the prairie's undulating weave, 
And near and far toward the shimmering heave 

Of mirage in the distances — alas ! 

The distances unbroken through the glass, 
Unstudded by a soul to know, to leave !— 
The billowy seas of odorous grasses grieve 

On mounding curves and laugh in the morass ; 

And o'er and o'er the restless, wandering air 

Breathes scurrying dapples on the pliant plain ; 

And dreamily and languidly the glare 

And aweing glamour of the verdured main 

In soughing whispers seems to say : "How fair 
These masterpieces of unlovely rain !" 



WHAT IS THE NEWS 

Joseph Medill, editor of the Chicago Tribune, died at 
San Antonio, Texas, March i6, 1899. It is said his last 
words were : "What is the news?" 

"What is the news?" — he turned his head 
And, waiting, innocent of dread, 

Looked forward to the mystic way 

Whereon no eye of living clay 
Hath gazed since word of man was said ; — 

Aye, at the gateway of the dead, 
Between the unread and the read. 

He breathes the query of the day : 
"What is the news?" 

O Soul, here nobly tenanted. 
From questioner to witness fled. 

Tell us the gloried news that may 

Else be denied a world for aye — 
Tell us, O Soul, whence thou hast sped 
"What is the news ?" 



AvS IT MAY BE 

The clouds have lifted from the recent row ; 

The wounds are open that should have been healed ; 

Laid low, but handy, gleams the frowning shield, 
And battle-pallor marks the sweating brow : 
Alone to Fate the vanquished, muttering, bow — 

Resign the arms that they were wont to wield, 

And, sullenly returning to the field, 
Rejoin to mock defeat that marks them now. 

A smold'ring rage upheaves anon the strong, 
Ungovernable hosts ; the thick turmoil 

Grows on, and on ! misguided rags rebel ; 
A devasting war of wrong 'gainst wrong 

Floods the grim land and taints the virgin soil— 
And Progress drives the trained steeds of Hell ! 



COMMUNION 

I fled from a throne of sorrow, 

Where Hope lay white and still, 
For I dreaded the grim, long morrow 

That stretched over Life's high hill. 
It was night, and coldly above me. 

Far distant, the starry dome 
Spoke only of those who love me 

In the veiled and unknown home. 

I paused beside the ocean, 

For my heart was crushed with care. 
And I felt the wide vault of emotion 

Thrilled through with the kinship there. 
For the great waves seemed to mutter 

The grief I could not speak, 
And the voice of the breeze to utter 

My prayer as it kisvsed my cheek. 



COMMUNION 

I seemed to feel infinite sorrows 

Of millions who watched ashore 
And waited and wept for tomorrows 

To bring home their Hopes once more. 
And the thought of their grief— ah, madness !- 

That sobbed in the waves' long roll 
Filled my heart with a tender sadness, 

For the sea had touched my soul. 

Oh mourner, go thou to the ocean — 

There is peace in its lonely roar, 
For it sings the deep dirge of devotion, 

Of grief that was borne before. 
Its voice, like the sayings of sages, 

The measure of time hath fled. 
And its song is a child of the ages— 

A soul-song from the dead. 



I 



A WAR-HERO 

There was magic in his presence as he dashed upon the 

field 
Bringing promise to his comrades that the enemy must 

yield. 
When his charger bore him forward to the serried ranks of 

foes 
There was wild hurrah of triumph and the cloud of carnage 

rose — 
As the shock of battle sounded, as the ruinous rush began, 
As the horsemen broke the columns and the beaten foeman 

ran. — 

But what of the heroes falling 

In the ranks of the fell defeat? — 
And what of bereaved ones calling 
For the "missing" of the retreat? 
There was bay upon his forehead as he rode to reap his 

fame; 
There were flowers in his pathway, nations cheered his 
noble name ; 



A WAR HERO 

Poets sang his praises grandly, courtiers wined and dined 

him well ; 
Wreaths paraded by sweet children in the hero's presence 

fell; 
Art, bribed from its mission, sought to fathom his desire 
And the nation's altar offered all to which he deigned 
aspire. — 

But what of the charger, battered ? 

Peace gave him ingratitude rare ! 
And what of the veteran, tattered ? 
He wears a white crown of care. 



THE UTOPIAN PIONEER 

Oh, give me the throb of solitude 

And the kind, S3mipathic tear ; 
And the breath and the sigh of the kinship mood 

Of the Utopian pioneer ! 
Oh, give me a heart that is kind and true. 

And a hand that is free from wrong, 
And a soul that mourns with a conscious rue 

For the ills of the great, sad throng. — 
Oh lift me out of the cynical vale 

Where the stern realities war, 
And place me up where the evils pale 

In the lights of the goods that are ! 
Oh, take me out of the selfish rut — 

From the glums' and the gluttons' gloom — 
And raise me up where the heart is shut 

FVom the feel of the golden plume : 
There is never a kind word gone astray 

And never a smile's light lost ; 
There is ever a joy in the mildest way. 

And a sting from the rude, rough host. 
Oh, give me the joy of solicitude 

And the kind, sympathetic tear, — 
And the breath and the sigh of the kinship mood 

Of the Utopian pioneer. 



JUST A LITTLE SYMPATHY 

Just a little fellow, 

Foreigner to joy ; 
No one to say "hello ! 

Merry Christmas, boy!" 
Just some yuletide laughter 

Of a luckier throng. 
Raising roof and rafter 

With the joyous song. 
Just a ragged, little chap, 

Peeping in to see. 
Met with childish pleasantry — 

Thoughtless raillery. 
Just a little broken heart 

Feeling more alone — 
Though the tears refuse to start, 

From the soul a moan. 
Just a small, caressing hand 

Of a passerby, 
Just a smiling, happy land 

To the poor child's eye. 
Just a little brotherhood 

Moving hearts and hands- 
Just a little motherhood 
In bereaved lands. 



SONG OF THE OLD MARINER 

Oh, lads, I am dying for love of the sea ! 

I would I could borrow its woe, 
Its riotous power and rapturous glee. 

And down countless fathoms could go. 
Oh the sea, the restless sea ! — 
The billowy boisterous sea ! — 
Oh, laddies, that I might mirror the sky 

And be free as the merry old sea ! 
I would cuddle the earth in my measureless arms 

And swell in the breast of the gales ; 
I would weary the winds, I would roll the alarms, 
I would live for the life of the sails ! 
Oh make me the jolly old sea ! 
The fathomless soul of the sea ! 
So deep I would creep in the unknown that sleep 

Would be rocked in earth's cradle with me ! 
Oh, a skim o'er the waves in the teeth of a breeze 

Brings echoes of strangeling desire 
To flee from the leas, from the hills and the trees, 
And 'neath the weird waves to expire. 
Oh the sea, the turbulent sea ! — 
The solemn, impassionate sea ! — 
Oh, lads, when I die let my humble dust lie 
In the luminous tombs of the sea ! 



MY LADY 

Far away in the dim, blue sky, 

Up, up, in the attic of air 
O'er the wings of the winds, so high 

Is the home of My Lady fair ! 
And she smiles in my loitering eye, 

In the depths of a saddened soul ; 

And the bells of Eternity toll 
Through the veil of the distance there. 

She is lingering over the sea 

In the breath of the radiant day. 

As the clouds from my heart, set free, 
Lift, softly, and wander away : 

She is pleading her love for me 

To her image still breathing here— 
But away in the wail of the year 

Of the past is My Lady gray. 



WHEN THE COWS COME HOME 

When the cows come home o'er the silent lea, 
And the leaves are a-rustling soft and free, 

And a twilight blending the sun doth shed 
On the earth below and the clouds blush red 
And the turkeys roost in a friendlj' tree — 
Then my thoughts go back to my childish glee 
In the pastures green, and the "Good night" tea 
That my mother made fairly turns my head — 
When the cows come home ! 
Sweet thoughts of love are all naught to me 
When home comes in with its gentle plea 

Of mother and father, now long since dead, 
And my heart to those fond scenes seems led 
At eve when the sun's last rays I see — 
When the cows come home. 



THE PRODIGAL 

I would I were a boy again, back in the dear, old place, 
Made radiant by a father's love, and mother's cheering face ; 
Again beneath the glossy oaks I would that I might roam, 
A reckless, restless, pranksome boy — the care and joy of 
home ! 

I would that I might know as now the luxury of such joy — 
Might preconceive the epitome of pleasures of a boy — 
And fill the hollow head of youth with wisdom-weighted 

mirth. 
With which to tone the rime of age — the woes of manly 

birth ! 

What joy to jar the old plum tree, and dodge the tumbling 

fruit ! 
To ramble through the leafy dells and dig the ginseng 

root ;— 



THE PRODIGAL 

What thrilling sport to roll the rocks into the deep blue 

ctream 
And watch the vStartled minnows dart and the pickerel's 

gilt dots gleam ! 

How soothing in the twilight are the frogs' orchestral 

strains ! 
And how musical the clatter of the milk pans when it rains ! 
And how gloriously the robins and the swallows greet the 

day 
Ere the dews, the gems of shadow, and the fog veils fade 

away! 

Vaguely memoried pass before me all the cattle, one by one, 
Browsing out amid the hazel in the cheery blush of dawn ; — 
How the tiny sheep bells tinkled and the rest went "linkum 

lang,"— 
Aud how full of glad bird-voices the rejoicing woodland 

rang. 

Ah, how dear those dimming voices murmuring in the 

thoughts of yore, 
Breathing in the saddened autumn of the springtime gone 

before ! 
Oh, how full of sweet emotion are the pictures of the past ! — 



THE PRODIGAL 

When the heart's foud reminiscence holds the reins of 
memory fast ! 



I would I were a boy again, back in the dear old place, 
Made radiant by a father's love and mother's cheering face ! 
Forever 'neath the dreamy oaks I would that I might roam, 
A careless, airy, happy boy, — the pride and joy of home. 



TO SEATTLE 

up o'er the Cascades' hoods of gray 
Resplendent rides the god of day, 
Like some illuming angel, driven, 
Pearl-laden, from the gates of heaven 
And slowly gliding high to view 
The glories of a realm so new 
That as the fog-veils fade for him 
A wide, vague sigh, so soft, so dim, 
Breathes from the drowsy, waking land 
'Round Puget Sound as if the hand 
Of God — to stay man's greed-born strife- 
But now had shrined the mystery, Life, 
In holy harmony. 

For thou, Fair Queen, art blessed indeed 
With welling founts for human need. 
With jeweled hills and monarch trees 
That thrill the soul and fill the breeze 
With youth-inspiring luxuries 

Aasd sir^n melody ; 



TO SEATTLE 

With leaping streams of laughing gold 
From thy New West ; and here, unrolled, 
About thee linger yet of old 
The masterweaves of Nature's loom, 
Aroused from immemorial gloom ; 
While by thy side the dimpling arm 
Of our Pacific, far from harm, 
Is gentle, like the touch of Love, 
Safe from the warring winds above, 

And wave-wild tragedy. 

Here Neptune's wearied myrmidons, 
Unarmed, reflect the gonfalons 
Of Foresthood, forevermore 
The marvel of this magic shore 

Of wonder-industry ! 
And, like the silvery, living wealth 
That loves our sealing's joyous health 
And braves new perils o'er and o'er 
To swim in ideal home once more, 
So are the sons of Sunsetland 
Soul- welded all, unpartisan'd, 
For home, for Justice, not for Might— 
In heaven born — to awe the Right 
That weaned Columbia from the crown 



TO SEATTLE 

And gave to Freedom's fair renown 
Its immortality! 

My Washington ! from sod to sod 
Thy swords, inspired of good and God, 

Flash e'er for Liberty ! 
While from this throbbing mart deploy 
White heralds of the New World's joy 
(Torn from Atlantic's iron hands) 
To flood engloomed Pacific lands 
With gleaming Hope and radiant Right, 
Commingled in triumphant Light 

Across Balboa's sea ! 



DOWN THE VALLEY 

"We are glMing tow'rd the setting of the sun—" 
So the song is softly breaking o'er my heart: 
"We are going down the valley one by one — " 
And the melody refuses to depart; 
And it wafts me out to sea, 
Wrapped in solemn mystery, 
To the realm of varied fancy's "great unknown." 

There is loneliness and silence o'er the whole, 
Softly whispered in the music to my soul; 
All the fears of dissolution one by one 
Vanish gently through the spirit of the tune, 

And I hear the balmy air 

Murmur sweetly everywhere: 
"We are gliding tow'rd the setting of the sun." 

Every heart has buried treasures, loved and dear. 

Every being sacred pictures all its own ; 
In the shrine of every heart the ghosts appear— 
And the veil is only drawn when we're alone ! 
Then how fatal the refrain 
To the jealous tinge of pain — 
"We are gliding tow'rd the setting of the sun." 



AFTER DEATH 

When I am gone will "someone" sadly cling 

To something I have said — some heart be sad 
Because a dear, dear friend hath taken wing ? — 

And can my work of good veil that of bad ? 
Ah, when I die will someone gently sing 

Some sad refrain that once I doted on? — 
Will there be tears of tender sorrowing 

As if I had been loved — when I am gone ? 
Ah, tell me now that I may feel the sting. 

Or know the joying of the li\nng love ! 
Lift up thine eyes and let their glories bring 

The truth that maybe death knows nothing of. 
When I am gone will worldly "mourners" fling 

Their musty cloaks about them — lay upon 
My bier a trade-extolling offering, 

And then fore'er depart — when I am gone? 



SPOKANE 

Here at the Inland Empire's heart, 

Amid this verdured prairie, 
'T is fit that men of brawn and brain 

And thought-creation tarry: 
Here, like a strong young giant waked 

To guard and keep his flock, 
This noble city stands between 

Yon border heights of rock ; 
And, like a tireless god of life 

Caressing the soul of man. 
Quenching the thirst of the pregnant land 

Glides the cool-waved Spokane. 
For here the tools of genius are 

An inspiration rare 
For minds as broad as the prairies wide, 

And free as the highland air ; 
For aims akin to the towering peaks 

That rise in the rear and van. 
For hearts and souls and wills that yield 

Like the glorious old Spokane. 



THE CAROLISTS 

Here they come a-trooping, whooping, 

Laughing, chaffing, jackadaws, 
Heterogeneous jumping, bumping, 

Boisterous hosts of Santa Claus ! 
Charging in from every door, 
Full of candy, lugging more. 
Loaded with many a toyshop store, 
Woolly doggies and dollies galore — 

Merry golarkins of Santa Claus ! 

Here they come a-trooping, whooping — 

Baby land, without its laws ; 
Musical lilliputs, dabbling, babbling- 
Beautiful army of Santa Claus ! 
Now they are trilling the carols o'er, 
All of them thrilled by the curious lore— 
"Hark! was that Santa?" (the log fire's roar) 
All knees come with a thud to the floor 
And the little hands rise and big eyes implore — 
Dimpled defenders of Santa Claus ! 



THE DEAR OLD CAROLS 

Bring out the sweet old carols and brush off the dust of the 

years ; 
Let me turn over the pages, yellowed and blotted by tears. 
Ah, how the fairy-like faces of dear ones revive with the 

songs ! 
How thrillingly near is the prattle of playmates long lost in 

the throngs ! 
How iV.e firelight recalls the old fancies from exile to action 

again, 
And the crystal-like icicled maple and the frost-etching 

window pane ! 
Bless the dear dream-laden carols, the fond recollections of 

yore, 
The songs sung so lightly in childhood, the music of souls 

evermore. 



PLEASURE 

There is no elixir of Life divine 
More eloquent than that we call the wine- 
Blest with more scope to tempt mankind to taste- 
To sip, to drink, and, as some will, to waste. 

Within its bead the smile of welcome glows, 
And down the ruby depths no sorrow shows. 
But deep and far, w^hence siren sweetness raced— 
Tho' all the hosts of Hope and Health oppose— 
Remorse rides down who dares behold her shrine. 



IF I COULD DIE 

If I could die tonight, and so forget 

The self-deplorings of a weary heart: 
If I could fall asleep, and sleeping let 

Fore'er each load of consciousness depart; 
If from my soul the stain of life were taken 

And every weak desire were fully fled. 
And in my heart no earthly wish could waken — 

Were I not blessed to be so gently dead ! 

No gloomy veil of morrows hung before me, 

Nor phantom scenes of deep regrets behind; 
Nor yet the pall of grim mischance thrown o'er me, 

Nor smiles, nor tears, nor masking of mankind; 
But only these: Oblivion and Time — 

Time greater than all ages gone before, 
Oblivion all idle yet sublime — 

And both unchanging so foreverraore. 



ON BELLINGHAM BAY 

When Vesper stars with jewel wings 

The stole of Night array, 
The moon her shimmering reflex flings 

Athwart the trail of day. 
Her white face glows with spectral pride, 

As if the dewy eve 
Had brought some Cynthian victory-tide 

Her splendors to retrieve. 

A noble peace enfolds the scene — 

A splash of silver spra}^ 
A phosphorus rush and sport of sheen, 

A lone wild bird's last lay, 
And then a low, sweet lullaby 

Of brooks and lyre-like rills — 
The while that radiant face on high 

Illumes a world of ills ! 



LIKE SHIPS 

Like ships on an unknown ocean 

Men cruise o'er the waves of life, 
Each laden with silent sorrows, 

Each racked in the swells of strife. 
Some sink 'neath the sobbing billows. 

Some, lost from the harbor light. 
Drift out in the fatal channel 

Of dark and endless night. 

But over the mystic ocean 

The balms of promises flow, 
Bearing away the sadness, 

Feeding new hopes that glow 
Out on the gloomy ocean, 

Out on the sea of souls, 
Out where Fate is pilot, 

Out where the life-wave rolls. 



THE DEAD DEFENDER 

To no Columbian sacred memory 

Belong the nation's thoughts so tender. 

Or gratitude so soulful, as to thee, 
O silent son! O dead defender! 



LINCOLN 

His life was like a wave of light: 
O'erflowing hearts with glory, 

And then dissolving in the night- 
A sad, bright, sacred story. 



THE INFALLIBLE TRINITY 

May joy attend thy birth, New Year! 
And happy hearts thy death, Old Year — 

For why 

Should we sit and sigh 

When you die? * ^ * 
Nay, Birth is a trinity goddess here. 
And death, her sister, as dear, Old Year — 

And far above — 

But with and of 

Them — God crowned Love. 



THE EVENING OF THE YEAR 

The red sun sinks in gold, the drowsy air 

Toys softly with the crimson-dappled leaves; 
The calm old ocean's beryled bosom heaves 

And sighs; the clean-limbed, noisy gulls repair 

To sweet repose, — and Evening's magic weaves 

And siren lullabies to eye and ear 

Bring a great peace to seal the dear old year. 



NOV 4 1899 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




018 483 362 1 4^ 



